


Contact

by Zayrastriel



Category: Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/M, Limited Angst, Mild Fluff, Sex, Smut, Telepathy, Texting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-26
Updated: 2020-02-27
Packaged: 2021-02-22 10:36:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,796
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22914865
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zayrastriel/pseuds/Zayrastriel
Summary: It doesn’t surprise the Doctor at all when she feels the Master claw his way back into this dimension – it screeches through their bond (it may have been stupid to reopen it, but she isn’t exactly known for making smart decisions 100% of the time). What does surprise her is the amount of time it takes for him to actually tell her he’s back.
Relationships: The Doctor/The Master (Doctor Who), Thirteenth Doctor/The Master (Dhawan)
Comments: 16
Kudos: 195





	1. Chapter 1

It doesn’t surprise the Doctor at all when she feels the Master claw his way back into this dimension – it screeches through their bond (it may have been stupid to reopen it, but she isn’t exactly known for making smart decisions 100% of the time). What does surprise her is the amount of time it takes for him to actually tell her he’s back.

It takes something like a month in her timeline before her phone buzzes.

**_Guess who’s back, love_.**

**Shove off** , the Doctor shoots back, fingers flying over her phone screen with a speed that has Yaz glancing over her way, eyebrow raised.

“Didn’t know you could text that fast,” she comments. “Most of the time, you text like an old granddad – no offence, Graham.”

“None taken,” Graham grumbles.

 _I text like that so you forget who I am_ , she doesn’t say, and also, _I’m ancient, not too old to know how to use predictive swiping_.

“I’m full of surprises,” she settles for, turning back to the TARDIS console and pretending she can’t see Yaz’s gaze on her.

Her phone buzzes again.

* * *

The Doctor doesn’t respond till she’s dropped them all back home for the month. Probably a bit too late for Graham to make dinner down at the pub, or for Ryan to get to the house party he insisted he should go to, or for Yaz to see her sister before she goes on holiday to Barcelona.

At some point over the millennia, she’s decided to not think about why exactly her TARDIS can manage unerring precision in every other instance except for when it comes to letting her companions have normal lives. The answer is bound to say more about her than the Doctor particularly needs to know at the moment, when there’s always something _else_ to worry about.

Like the message burning through her pocket as she runs through some quick maintenance, despite her best attempts to ignore its niggling presence in her mind.

“Ugh, _fine_ ,” she exclaims finally, halfway through opening up a concerning-looking valve. The TARDIS makes an inquiring sound. “Don’t judge me,” she grumbles, pulling her phone out of her pocket.

 ** _R U D E_** , he’s responded, because of course he has.

**Not like you don’t deserve it.**

**_Took your time responding there, Doctor._ **

**Took your time escaping, didn’t you? Getting sloppy, are we, Master?**

**_As if you didn’t feel it the moment I got back to this dimension._ **

**Well, you certainly took your time getting in touch.**

**_Aww, were you waiting for me to text you? How pathetically sweet of you_.**

She isn’t sure if it’s the _pathetic_ or the _sweet_ (neither of which are true, at all) that has her turning off the phone and shoving it as deep as possible into her pocket again.

The TARDIS console beeps, rather pointedly.

“You can shove off too,” she grumbles.

* * *

When the Doctor finally turns her phone back on a couple of days later, she’s hit by conflicting waves of guilt – at Ryan’s curiosity and slight despondence, Yaz’s persistence and concern, Graham’s kindness and worry – and annoyance – at the three unread messages from a contact whose name she really needs to change.

She procrastinates from those. Starts by firing off quick voice messages to her fam – _I’ll pick you up as planned, sorry for not responding I’ve been neck-deep in maintenance, I’m alright I promise_.

But once that’s done…

“You literally threw him out of the dimension a couple of months ago,” she tells herself aloud, leaning against the TARDIS console with one hand rubbing her neck in an attempt to relieve her own tension. “What’s the worst he can do? Say something mean?”

It’s slightly worse than that.

**_Oh, struck a nerve have I? You don’t have to be embarrassed, Doctor, it’s very cute of you._ **

**_Now, love, this is getting childish._ **

**_You know, ignoring me is one thing, but worrying your companions like this? Reminds me of that time with Clara._ **

**Don’t you dare.**

**_Ah, she speaks! Still a sore spot, is that one?_ **

Insofar as tearing herself apart with the knowledge that Clara is still out there with Me, still heading back to her death on Gallifrey (though does that even exist, now? Did saving Clara come to nothing when the Master burned Gallifrey to the ground, or is she safe now?) – yes, it _is_ a sore spot. Sore enough that it takes the Doctor a whole half hour before –

**Leave my friends alone.**

**_Took you a while to catch on there. You’re getting slow in your old age, Doctor._ **

**Master.**

**_Relax, love. I’m a tad too busy at the moment to bother with your…fam. Stupid name, that._ **

**You’re stupid** , the Doctor shoots back before she can even stop to think. _Oh_ , she thinks, exhaling heavily, _I’m_ not _having a good day_.

**_How old are you, sixty?_ **

**Just leave me alone.**

**_…As you wish_.**

And that’s it. As Yaz calls her, voice thick with concern. As she puts the phone on speaker, eyeing her screen for incoming notifications.

 _That can’t be it_.

She picks Graham up first, notes and dismisses the slight tremor of relief in his shoulder as he tells that _it’s all clear, Doc. No cancer_. Ryan is carefully trying to avoid talking about an _awesome_ girl he met at the party. Yaz is coming down from serious sibling irritation.

No notification from O.

* * *

The Doctor caves three days later, because _of course_ she does. She can’t _not_ , not with him. Despite everything, always.

 **So how did you escape, anyway?** she sends as she sits cross-legged on the floor, the comforting hum of the TARDIS beneath her. It’s the most casual way she can think of reopening conversation (not that she had many other ideas), and the fastest way to get over his gloating.

**_Some fast talking and a dimension hopper I managed to put together over seventy seven years._ **

Huh. No gloating about her messaging him, and a straight answer. Either he’s taking over a small civilisation and is a bit distracted, or…

Nope. Out of options there.

**That’s…a bit impressive.**

**_Wasn’t much else to do in the twentieth century._ **

**_Especially once I escaped from Dachau. Turns out that turning a perception filter back on just doesn’t work with Nazis._ **

Guilt clogs the Doctor’s throat when she reads that second message. For a moment she freezes, fingers poised over the keyboard, brain scrambling for something to say.

**_I can feel you agonising from all the way over here. Stop, it’s painful._ **

**I’m sorry.** _I’m sorry_ , she thinks as she presses send, hard.

 _Oh, don’t be_. _It was wonderfully cruel, Doctor. The sort of thing that I’d think of, really_ , he whispers over their bond, voice gleeful as she shivers at its echo. _And if it was the only way that_ this _was going to reopen…worth all the torture and more._

 _Why?_ she asks, because she’ll always ask the questions he wants her to.

 _Oh_ , he responds, _isn’t it obvious? Easiest way to get your attention_.

* * *

 _So,_ he asks, sliding casually into her head a couple of days after the Tesla affair (and the Doctor is still _buzzing_ at that), _when are we going to meet up?_

It’s not the best timing, what with her currently being handcuffed in a prison cell awaiting sentencing by a rather enraged feudal monarch (so she may have told Henry II to stop cheating on his wife, a couple of years before Eleanor was actually supposed to find out – that couldn’t be an executable offence, surely?)

Still, it’s a good distraction.

_What is this, Tinder?_

_If it is_ , he replies, disappointingly unimpressed by her reference, _you’re the one who swiped right first_.

…He has a point there.

 _The problem with meeting up is that you generally try to_ kill _me. Which I’m not a fan of, thanks_.

There’s a pause for a moment. The Doctor uses the time to continue struggling for her sonic screwdriver – big pockets are great most of the time. Not when she’s handcuffed and trying to somehow wriggle it out of them.

Then,

 _What if I promise not to? Not forever,_ he adds. _Just this time._

_…Why?_

_Would you believe that maybe I just miss you? Enough to hold off on killing you?_

She can, if only because she misses him some of the time.

(All of the time, with an ache in both her hearts that never quite leaves.)

_…You destroyed Gallifrey._

_And you’ll find out why, one day. When you discover the truth._

_But you’re not going to tell me._

_Not this time,_ he says, ridiculous and enigmatic, and _Rassilon_ she misses him.

Her fingers wrap around her screwdriver, and as she looks at the cell around her, she makes some quick calculations. _Give me an hour to avoid being executed by an angry English monarch, and then we’ll talk locations. Alright?_

She can practically see his smile through the bond. _It’s a date_.


	2. Chapter 2

Paris, 2043. Of course it is.

“I’m judging you,” the Doctor tells the Master as soon as he opens the door. A luxury apartment in the 7th arrondissment – because, again, of _course_ it is _._ “Just so you know.”

“When are you not judging me, Doctor?” Her name rolls off his tongue like it always does, part contemptuous and part adoring. “And before you ask, I didn’t kill anyone for this place.” He steps aside to let her in before she can shove past him. It’s a studio, but large – still, a frankly ludicrously large bed takes up a good quarter of the space. One of the walls is sheer glass, a huge window overlooking the Eiffel Tower, and rays of mid-afternoon sun stream through to light the apartment.

Once more, with feeling – _of course_.

“Oh wow, what restraint,” she replies dryly, pressing a hand against the glass. Despite herself though, the Doctor actually is a little bit impressed. This is luxury of a kind that she rarely gets to experience for herself, this time around. She had far less scruples about petty fraud and low-level theft when she was a grumpy Scotsman, it’s turned out, and a university professor salary (or a UNIT consultant salary, for that matter) makes more a difference than she’d like to admit as a time-travelling Time Lord. “Do you want a sticker?”

She can practically hear the Master rolling his eyes behind her. “I want you to shut up,” he says, placing a hand on the Doctor’s right shoulder and guiding him to face her. “Unless you came for a chat about morality?”

There are a handful of responses on the tip of her tongue – _I’m always ready for a chat about morality_ or _seems a bit redundant_ – but then an arm around her waist pulls her in and his lips are on hers, banishing those words into nonexistence.

His kissing is more aggressive than Missy’s first kiss, but with just a bit more skill. Less desperate and more controlled, like he’s finally remembering just how easily she’ll cave to him if he just asks. Doesn’t force his way into her mouth, but his tongue slides in with ease as she opens readily for him. When he nips at her bottom lip, she practically melts into him from sheer shock at the thrill it sends rippling through her body. She’s smaller than him this time, for the first time in centuries, and there’s something unfamiliar yet wonderful about that.

She breaks away after a long few moments, taking a deep breath. “So you called me over for this. What do the kids call it these days? A booty call?” she gasps, unable to suppress her laughter over those words.

“You said it, not me. Besides, it’s the only reason I have to not kill you,” the Master replies, but he’s staring at her lips, obviously distracted. They already feel swollen, and it feels _good_.

“Truce till sunrise?”

“Truce till sunrise,” he agrees, and then the Doctor is being shoved up against the window with a yelp. The hand that had been around her waist slips down to grip her hip, squeezing hard. The other begins to tug at one of her suspenders roughly.

“Hey!” she exclaims in protest – she _just_ replaced those. “Don’t break my clothes.”

“I don’t remember you having an issue with that last time,” because of course he remembers that. Still, he foregoes her suspenders as she pushes his hand aside and begins to work on them herself, instead sliding upwards to cup her left breast. He’s more gentle than she thought he would be, and she appreciates that more than she’d ever admit aloud.

It feels _odd_ , having a foreign hand there. Oh, the Doctor’s gone exploring by herself – knows that her areolae are oddly more sensitive than her nipples, knows that her right breast is slightly bigger than her left in a way that’s even more usual for Time Lords than it is for humans. She’s found the best way to play herself to orgasm. But this is the first time she’s touched else properly, been touched beyond the occasional hug or pat on the back.

This, this light touches through her shirt as his mouth descends on hers again and she fumbles with her suspenders, is far better than that. It means that it takes her far longer than it should to unclip them, and also means that as soon as she does he’s releasing her mouth and pulling her shirt off her with a ferocious intensity that unfurls something in her stomach and pools between her legs.

“Rassilon, you’re beautiful,” the Master tells her with fierce honesty.

It’s not the first time he’s said it to her, but it’s the first time in this body, and she can’t help but flush. “Cheers,” she mumbles, looking down. _So are you, you know_ , she thinks, and remembers a little too late that –

 _Thanks, love_. For once, he actually sounds half sincere. Both of his hands come up to trace over her breasts, and she wonders if he’s thinking about the way he used to like to be touched.

“They’re good fun, aren’t they?” he asks, though she’s fairly sure she didn’t project that time. “I almost miss them.”

She can understand why, as every movement sparks sensation that trembles through her body; her nipples were always sensitive before, but this is something different entirely. She should probably be touching him back – she wants to, wants to explore this new body of his in turn. But he’s looking at her with such focus, touching her with such determined concentration, that it seems almost rude to break that.

“Almost?” she echoes, faintly.

“Well.” He looks up from her body to meet her gaze. “This way, it means I get to fuck _you_ again.”

She bites her lip. His eyes flicker down, then back up. “Fair enough,” she says, faintly.

* * *

The bed is a dream; comfortable in a way that the Doctor is sure the TARDIS would conjure for her if she actually ever slept. It’s hard to focus on appreciating that though, when she’s on her back with the Master pushing into her, slowly.

Every time they do this after a regeneration is different; never sure how the other is going to move, which one of them is feeling benevolent or cruel. She can’t help but be grateful that this time he’s opting for the former; there’s something about having a vagina, about having him fill her up, that is unlike anything else she’s ever felt. It leaves the Doctor unmoored, fingers digging into his back, seeking an ounce of stability as she’s stretched open.

_Are you alright?_

_Yeah,_ she sends back. _Just. You know_.

For an instant, she can feel mild amusement. _I do know_ , he tells her; sends an image down the bond; the last time they did this.

_It feels…_

_I know_ , he says again. _I know_ , he says over and over as he begins to thrust into her. Her legs wrap around his waist, pulling him closer. _I know_ , as he rests his hand on her throat, and it sounds like _I love you_.

* * *

Sunrise is at 5:42am. The Doctor is awake and half-dressed by 5:30 as the Master watches her from the bed, laughter on his lips and yearning in his eyes.

“So punctual.”

“Punctual, me? Never,” she says with a scoff. “Just want to get a headstart before whatever you’re sending after me this time catches up.”

“So distrusting.”

She shrugs. “Can you blame me?”

He echoes her shrug, stretching his arms out above his head. “Always,” he tells her, quietly.

The Doctor pauses, midway through clipping on her second suspender. The word echoes in her head. “I know,” she says just as quietly. _I know_.

**Author's Note:**

> actual interaction and potential (mild) smut next chapter xoxo


End file.
